


of earl grey breakfasts and english breakfast dinners

by chocolattea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Introspective...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 05:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17595446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolattea/pseuds/chocolattea
Summary: John x tea x depression, then and now.This is his life these days: Earl Grey breakfasts and English Breakfast dinners, China Green to stave off hunger in between.





	of earl grey breakfasts and english breakfast dinners

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while back, wired from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. I just intended to rave about tea, but nooope. End product is a bit weird but I'm forcing myself to post it anyway because I like that one line.

**Then.**

_There is a small, dingy flat on the fringes of London. If anyone bothers to try the door, they would find it unlocked. At first glance, the place appears empty, but the heaps of teabags in the rubbish bin suggest otherwise. If one were to peer in the fridge or snoop about the cabinets, they would hope the occupant orders a lot of takeaway._

_Cups litter the sink, and spill out onto the kitchen counter. A cursory inspection reveals tea rings on porcelain, a timeline of cuppas made and consumed over the course of days. The mess is an odd comfort, the only personal touch in an otherwise sterile space._

The kettle begins to whistle, its nascent cries plaintive but subdued.

 

The armchair seems to have melded into John’s back, and it is an effort to pry himself away. He stands slowly, a little hunched, in a too-large jumper and pyjama bottoms that threaten to fall. All of his clothes are too large these days.

 

By now, the kettle is shrieking. It demands attention, and threatens to boil over if John isn’t quick enough.

 

John glares at it. The scant few feet appear an arduous trek without the cane, and even more so with it. He considers sitting right back down and not getting up. With a broken body and scrambled mind, if there is any point to it all, it escapes him.

 

Still, the idea of being confined to a chair is despairing enough to force him up. _Limp towards the kitchen. Reach out._ Locate the dial, shut off the stove – one tedious motion at a time. There is a spark of heat as his hand strays too close to the flame; he lingers in it, before reluctantly turning the knob.

 

The flame sputters and fades, and the kettle quiets, returning the room to deafening silence.

 

John takes the nearest cup, his nose wrinkling upon seeing its contents. He contemplates the dish soap and pristine sponge, just out of arm’s reach, and decides that a quick rinse will suffice. A little mold hardly matters these days.

 

His shoulder aches as he lifts the kettle and pours. Water first, always, once to heat the cup, then a second pour to fill it, three-quarters full, with space for milk he’s stopped buying. He fumbles with a teabag, and wrestles Twinings out of its little red package. He drops it in string and all, and pretends not to notice the water that splashes out.

 

Leaning against the kitchen counter, John clenches his left hand around the cup’s handle and brings it to his lips. When he tries to drink, however, he begins to shake, a slow, unstoppable quake that grows stronger as it keeps on. Tea sloshes over the rim, adding to the collection of stains on the counter.

 

(He thinks to the prescription of propranolol in the back of his bedside drawer, little pink pills still sealed in their pristine package, and wonders if it isn’t time to start taking them. He knows beta blockers can help with the symptoms, maybe enough so that merely making tea isn’t such a chore. But there is little sense in taking medication when he has no real reason to be functional, and John is unable to muster up the energy to go and fetch them. He’ll think about taking them tomorrow.)

 

John hates that he needs to hold a cup with both hands. He grudgingly presses his right hand against the body of the cup, a paltry measure that barely lessens the shaking. The cup sears heat into his palm, growing almost unbearably hot after a few seconds; John zeroes in on the sensation as he waits for the worst of the shakes to pass.

 

When the trembling recedes, leaving only a vague tingle behind, he takes a cautious sip. The texture of tea is thick and full as always, but to his frustration, the flavor dies quickly on his tongue. He doesn’t remember tea being so dull; it might be the lack of milk. But the warm liquid settles his stomach and provides something to focus on, so he continues to drink without tasting.

 

This is his life these days: Earl Grey breakfasts and English Breakfast dinners, China Green to stave off hunger in between. John’s mind wanders from pink pills to grey steel, and he knows that when he’s had enough, his life will slip easily through the cracks. Still, there is the effort of retrieving the gun, loading it, and aiming it true; and John thinks, _not today_. Tomorrow, perhaps.

 

 

 

**Now.**

 

_The flat is nestled in the heart of London, a short walk away from Regent’s Park. The doorbell is rings frequently, and friends and visitors alike climb the stairs to 221B. It is alive with clutter, from the skull on the mantle to crime-scene paraphernalia on every surface. There are body parts in the fridge and lab equipment in the kitchen cabinets, and to the madmen that live here, this is_ home _._

 

They have just closed a case, and the beast that is Sherlock’s mind is appeased for at least the next hour or so. Celebratory takeaway is in order, now that the consulting detective deigns to eat again. A feast crowds their kitchen table, cartons of fried rice and stir-fry jostling for space with the microscope and mold cultures.

 

The fancy electric kettle beeps, because that’s something John has now. There are actually two, but the other is reserved for non-tea-related experiments, and John stays far away from it. The one that _doesn’t_ have bits of rat inside purrs happily as it finishes boiling, and John gets up to make tea. He’s lost track of the cane again, but he rises easily enough. 

                                                             

Their tea drawer is positively bursting with options, from classic black to strange vegetable concoctions that John suspects Sherlock only buys to see if they’ll make him turn green. Today, John turns to the tins of loose-leaf and the proper tea set – gifts from Mycroft that, according to Sherlock, were only saved from being tossed out because John insisted. John lets him keep up the illusion. Sherlock gulps down bagged teas in a pinch, especially when he's in the midst a case, but John has seen the way he pauses to savor a good loose-leaf brew.

 

Brewing loose-leaf tea isn’t something John had much experience with beforehand, but John finds that he enjoys the routine of it, the easy precision involved. Heat the pot, and dole out the right amount of the rolled-up leaves. Pour water, and steep for the correct length of time – a little less than standard, Sherlock prefers it less bitter. The rich, earthy aroma permeates the air, scent itself a pleasure in its own right, and John breathes in deeply. His hands are steady when he lifts the pot and pours the amber liquid into their cups. The tremors only return on particularly bad days, and now those are few and far between.

 

Sherlock looks up and smiles when John places a cup beside him, silent thanks in the crinkle of his eyes and a strand of noodle dangling from his lips. He looks a little ridiculous and a lot goofy, and John grins back. Sherlock’s smile widens, and then they devolve into a fit giggles, laughing like fools for no reason whatsoever. 

 

(It can be a pain to clean and maintain all their tea-related apparatus -- since Sherlock gladly lets them sit and cultivate mold -- but, like with most things, when it comes to Sherlock Holmes John can’t bring himself to mind.)

                                                                                      

This is his life these days: tea always for two, with more of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits than is strictly healthy. His jumpers fit right again, because for all that Sherlock disdains food for himself, he never fails to remind John to eat, even in the middle of a case.

                             

(It took John far too long to realize that Sherlock intentionally chose stakeouts from cafés or restaurants solely for John’s benefit; the realization had hit him like a rock to the head, making him more than a little giddy.)

 

There are still bad days, of course. There are days where his body twinges in ways it shouldn’t, and there are nights where memories lay waste to dreams. Perhaps he’ll always be a bit _not good_ , but, looking at Sherlock, John finds that he is okay with that.

 

John sits back down, finding space on the table of Chinese and mad science for his cup, and takes a sip. Flavor bursts onto his tongue, richer and brighter than anything he can remember, and he thinks that maybe, tomorrows are getting better after all.


End file.
